THE FIRST DRAFT

# The Last Letter She found the letter in his desk—an old thing, yellowed and folded. His handwriting, unmistakable. *I never sent this,* it began. *I was afraid.* She read about a choice he'd made decades ago, a path not taken, a person he'd almost been. He'd written it the night before they met. Her hands trembled as she reached for her phone to call him, to ask why he never told her. Then she saw the obituary on his desk. The letter slipped from her fingers. Some truths, she understood then, arrive only after the moment to speak them dies.

# The Last Match Sarah struck the match against the box. It flared—brilliant orange. She held it to the edge of her journal, watching the pages curl and blacken. Years of secrets, confessions, regrets—all of it turning to ash. Her hands trembled. She could still stop this. Dunk it in water. Save something. But no. The flame reached her fingers. She dropped it. The journal burned on the tile floor, smoke curling toward the ceiling. She watched until only charred fragments remained, then swept them into the trash. Some things, once done, can never be undone. She felt lighter.